


Without, the bourgeois

by TwelveLeagues



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Seine, Undercover Missions, Uniform Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-24 23:31:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20366917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/pseuds/TwelveLeagues
Summary: “You know I don’t approve of this,” Javert said.Valjean hummed sympathetically. “You could always find some other way in,” he said with the air of a man who knew perfectly well that Javert was willing to tolerate all sorts of things he disapproved of nowadays.There’s a scandal in the National Guard. Luckily Javert happens to know a National Guardsman. Or the closest approximation, at least.





	Without, the bourgeois

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akatonbo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akatonbo/gifts).

There was nothing wrong with Javert’s plan. He’d sat at his desk for the best part of a morning working out the finer details, figuring out how to convince Valjean to go along with it and mentally mapping out the timeline from the initial report to the dramatic arrest to the trial and sentencing and all being right in the world.

But, it transpired, there were a few things he hadn’t taken into account. First of all, the size of Jean Valjean’s bedchamber in the Rue de l’Homme Armé. And secondly… his eyes drifted across the damnably few feet of floor to where Valjean had almost finished dressing. He looked liked like the model of an upstanding citizen. A veteran National Guardsman, honoured to wear his country’s colours and serve his king.

“You know I don’t approve of this,” Javert said.

Valjean hummed sympathetically. “You could always find some other way in,” he said with the air of a man who knew perfectly well that Javert was willing to tolerate all sorts of things he disapproved of nowadays. He was struggling with a small, fiddly button just beneath his uniform’s collar. Javert endured the sight for a few long minutes before sighing, crossing the room and firmly pulling Valjean’s hands out of the way.

Valjean froze a little at the unexpected contact but quickly recovered. And Javert, aghast at Valjean’s shock but determined not to show it, made a deliberate show of slowly raising his hand before reaching for the button.

“Here. Let me.”

Valjean swallowed but kept his hands by his side. He tilted his chin up a little. Javert dipped his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the delicate stitching of the uniform’s rich red braid.

“Is it really such a problem?” Valjean asked, his voice curiously rough. Of course he had to hold the question back until Javert was at a disadvantage. He must have known Javert couldn’t be expected to hold his nerve while his hands were so close to Valjean’s throat.

“That uniform stands for something,” Javert snapped, avoiding Valjean’s eyes. “And you are not the thing it stands for.”

“A parade or two. The occasional day’s service. Surely you can’t object to that?”

The questions were perplexing enough without Valjean so intolerably _close_. If Javert’s hand moved just a little in the wrong direction, the back of his fingers might brush against the vulnerable skin beneath his jaw. Javert gritted his teeth. Everything had been simpler before Valjean had turned out to be a man instead of an abominable idea.

“I apologise. I should have kept quiet.” Javert tugged the fabric of the uniform into place a little more roughly than strictly necessary. He crossed the room to the safety of the wooden table in the corner.

Valjean was still fiddling with the fit of his jacket. It was perhaps a little looser around the shoulders than it had been a few months before, Javert thought. And then, catching the thought, he reminded himself that he was a fool and only making his own life harder. He sighed, turning his attention pointedly to the stack of papers on the table.

His spies had only been able to offer scattered reports on the matter, but the steady stream of rumours suggested that there was something afoot among the upper echelons of the national guard. M. Hector’s name had been whispered more than once. A parade of guardsmen and former guardsmen and resentful would-be guardsmen all repeated the insinuations in the there’s-more-to-be-told-but-I’m-not-the-one-to-tell-it register that promised a scandal but often proved to be little more than thin air.

It all came down to money, of course. Some funds stashed away somewhere. Some artillery sold off, it appeared, and the profits nowhere to be seen. The sort of thing that, Javert was beginning to realise, happened more frequently than he might ever have guessed. And usually without anyone batting an eyelid. Certainly without attracting the attention of the police.

Still, Javert had been drawn in by the whispers. Perhaps it was the relief of it: His old instincts found a new purpose, as fierce and dedicated as ever but redirected. If there had always been corruption among the legitimate higher orders, Javert had found other things to occupy himself with and it had served him well. Counterfeit mayors and runaway convicts and gangs of thieves were more than enough to build a career. The National Guard operated well and M. Hector was a sergeant-major of good standing and that was all there was to it.

There were other rumours circulating, of course. Hector had proclivities. A taste for men of a certain age and stature. “The respectable kind, on the surface at least,” a financier had muttered over a shared bottle of wine with a man he’d known all too well was a police spy. Javert wasn’t certain what to make of it. It made a kind of _sense_ — why shouldn’t a criminal have such tastes? But there was no real evidence for any of it. Javert had added the few relevant details to his notes and moved on to matters of substance.

Since the night of the barricades, it was as thought he’d been in a kind of waking dream. He’d stumbled out of Valjean’s home as quickly as possible, delivered formal apologies to his superiors and resumed his work with his usual meticulous approach. If anyone had noticed anything amiss that night, they had put it down to exhaustion and emotion — unusual for Javert, but perfectly understandable. Certainly nothing worth making a fuss over. He’d been grateful for the reprieve, bending his head over his work and turning himself over to week after slow-moving week that smelled of ink and paper and rain.

Now, though, it was as though a door had been flung open and Javert was set loose. There was a crispness in the air and the promise of blood between his teeth. The reports from the National Guard had been filtering in for months, it seemed. When he looked through his old records, he found dozens of old notes, dutifully recorded and then buried and forgotten. Well, surely now was the time to revive the case.

And it just so happened that Javert knew a National Guardsman. Or, if not quite a National Guardsman then the closest approximation. He stole a glance across the room. Valjean was facing the window, his white hair falling in loose curls around the uniform’s high collar, his body still powerful even after the worst days of the summer they’d both somehow survived. 

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m not sure I approve of this either,” said Valjean, his eyes on the horizon.

“I don’t doubt it. Honour among thieves, eh?”

Valjean looked up sharply at that and Javert straightened, poised to defend his position. A barrage of arguments sprung to mind: Valjean certainly was a thief and there was a good chance that Hector was too. Valjean was currently at liberty and alive, thanks in no small part to Javert, so he could take that look off his face, thank you very much. Valjean could hardly deny being honourable. Valjean was—

Valjean dropped his gaze, apparently in no mood to argue, leaving Javert with a lingering sense of guilt and no way to eradicate it. Instead, he stood up.

“Are you ready, then?”

Valjean gave himself a final once-over in the mirror. Javert watched the line of his shoulders unhunch as Valjean shifted into another version of himself. The National Guardsman was serene, untroubled by whatever gloomy thoughts had been hanging over Jean Valjean a moment before. He turned and fixed Javert with a gaze that was almost playful.

“What do you think? Passable?”

“Enough to fool the idiots in the Tenth Legion, I should think,” Javert replied, as though Valjean hadn’t been fooling those very idiots for years before Javert caught up with him. He looked away hastily and made for the door before Valjean had time to respond. Valjean would follow, he told himself. And Valjean did. 

There was a carriage waiting outside and Javert gave the driver directions while Valjean stood behind him at a quiet attention, radiating a strange confidence that may have come from the uniform and may have come from Valjean himself.

As they rattled through the streets, Javert began to wish he’d walked. He peppered Valjean with questions and Valjean assured him, once again, that yes he knew Hector. Yes, he could find some reason or other to ask him a question or two. No, he would not arouse suspicion. No, it was not usual for guardsmen to bring friends from the police along to mount guard with them. And yes, Javert would be far better off maintaining a sensible distance.

There was another thing they ought to discuss. Javert swallowed.

“You say you’re familiar with Hector.”

“The man is my sergeant,” Valjean acknowledged. There was a wary note to his voice, which only increased Javert’s suspicions. 

“So you may already be aware of his proclivities.”

Valjean’s hands moved from the seat to his lap and then back to the seat. If Javert didn’t know better, he might say Valjean had flinched. His stomach lurched.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Valjean said. He kept his eyes carefully forward.

“He has a taste for men, I’ve heard. Men of some means, fit enough to wield a musket and intelligent enough to take orders without talking back.” 

Javert had always prided himself on his honesty, on his willingness to speak ugly truths, no matter the cost. But these words tasted vulgar. Valjean would not look him in the eye. His cheeks looked heated.

“That is hardly a crime, Javert.”

That was true enough. But it wasn’t why Javert had raised the issue. But now, steeped in the strange but increasingly familiar sensation of being chastened by a criminal who should be acting under his orders, he wasn’t entirely sure why he _had_ raised it.

Now Valjean was glaring at him.

“How convenient for you, to know a man like me. Not only a member of the National Guard, but also—” His chest rose and fell rapidly and he fixed his eyes on the front wall of the carriage.

“What are you suggesting? I learned a great deal in the bagne, but if you hope I might be able to… to deceive this poor man in some way, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

“This ‘poor man’, as you put it, has been said to put away a king’s ransom under the city’s nose,” Javert snapped, breathless with shame and grateful for the argument he’d been denied earlier.

“Well, comfort yourself with the knowledge that the state will make him regret it. It won’t make him repent and it won’t make him change, but he’ll curse the day we caught him at it.” Valjean laughed bitterly. “And people will say, ‘it’s no surprise, the likes of him. Didn’t you hear? He had proclivities.’”

“Don’t be so dramatic, for heaven’s sake. It’s not as though he’ll be sent to the chain gang.”

Valjean fell silent at that, though his shoulders were vibrating with an energy Javert had not seen since before his recuperation. Javert scowled, turning to face the window.

The carriage clattered through the streets, past idling beggars and cheating market traders. It passed fine houses packed with adulterers and liars and chambermaids with light fingers. It passed by the Prefecture in the Rue de Jerusalem, which had once offered more than sufficient guidance for Javert to do his job. 

Valjean was still facing away from Javert, his shoulders hunching inwards. The silence in the carriage was no longer amiable. It was almost worse than the thin, hopeless silences Javert had endured during Valjean’s worst nights of the summer. This silence was heavy with unvoiced emotion.

“I don’t see why you’re so worried. He’ll find some wealthy aunt to vouch for him,” Javert said finally, exasperated by the silence.

And it was true. A man in his position would have some connection or other. Or he would know someone who did. And they would write a letter or make a discreet donation to someone or other and M. Hector would be a free man. Disgraced, perhaps, but well enough. Perhaps the notoriety would do him good.

Valjean turned slowly. His eyes were still troubled and his voice trembled when he spoke. “Then _why_ are we doing this? What’s the use of it?”

Javert opened his mouth to answer. And then he closed it.

There were plenty of reasons. Javert had identified most of them at his desk when he’d first come up with the plan. Because Hector was breaking the law. Because that money rightfully belonged to the Guard’s coffers and not to some sergeant-major who was already doing well enough on his own income. Because every time Javert arrested a pauper he saw Jean Valjean’s face or the mangled body of a student or a child. Because there had to be a way to carry on without doing harm, and surely that meant finding more deserving targets. 

He took a deep breath.

Because there was something afoot in the upper echelons of the National Guard and he happened to know a National Guardsman. Or, at least, the closest approximation.

“Javert?” Valjean’s expression shifted before his eyes, turning from wounded contempt to shock. And then the world was swimming around Javert and Valjean’s arms were around him, strong as he remembered and warm and quick to forgive, whether Javert deserved it or not. It was only then that Javert realised he was shaking.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled into the embroidered braid, pressing his cheek into the rich blue cotton. He hoped, mortified, that he hadn’t wept. Or that, if he had, he hadn’t stained Valjean’s uniform. And then he hoped, perversely, that he had. If he must insist on making a fool of himself, he might as well do some damage in the process.

He pulled himself free of Valjean’s grip, breathing deeply. Valjean watched him, breathing in soft uniform and keeping still.

“I don’t know,” Javert said again. His face felt hot and swollen.

“Perhaps we should return home,” Valjean said carefully. “And give the matter some more thought.”

Javert imagined Hector sitting behind his desk, moving money and dispensing orders. He imagined him late at night, in a cheerfully lit room with a glass of wine and a hearty stew and someone who was not his wife. And, not for the first time, he imagined the man’s hand tracing the line of Jean Valjean’s jaw, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear. Would Valjean turn away at the touch? Or would he welcome it? Would he talk quietly about mercy and righteousness and perhaps suggest a large donation to a particular convent?

Never mind, Javert thought. Better not to know. He nodded briskly and leaned forward to give the driver their new orders.

“Back home, then,” he said, settling back into his seat. “A nice little pleasure cruise at the expense of Monsieur Gisquet.”

Valjean huffed a laugh and touched his forearm. “I’ll cover the cost,” he said. But Javert was already subtracting it from his monthly budget. The city could afford it, he decided.

Outside, the sun had washed the streets with a sheen of bronze. Jean Valjean’s hand was a warm and welcome pressure and the two of them were alive and whole and more or less on speaking terms. The world was a strange place, Javert thought, and change came whether a man liked it or not.

_But let it come slowly_, he thought, stealing a glance at Valjean out of the corner of his eye. _If I have any choice in the matter, give me more time._

**Author's Note:**

> Dear akatonbo, this is almost anti-casefic but I hope it’s still relevant to your interests. And I especially hope that Valjean and Javert’s various issues with the homophobia surrounding the case doesn’t cross the line into the kind of angst over their own sexualities that you’re not a fan of.
> 
> What little I know about the National Guard is cobbled together from the Brick, [Kainosite’s helpful cheat sheet](https://kainosite.tumblr.com/post/164486587055/the-organization-of-the-national-guard). The rest is my own limited imagination and all errors are mine.


End file.
